FringeNYC 2004 Reviews - Page 12

Shivah/Proper
reviewed by Martin Denton

Frustration, after spending ninety minutes in a theatre and understanding the point of almost nothing that happened on stage, can make a reviewer lust for a neat revenge: there's a real temptation for me to simply list here all the seemingly weird events of Shivah/Proper, ingenuously and earnestly, the better to hang the artist with his own possibly misguided or pretentious art.

There's even a chance that Mathew Seidman, the writer, designer, and director of this very odd and very opaque performance art concoction, deserves such treatment—but it's a slim one: charlatans will find little lucre in mounting ambitious productions in the FringeNYC festival, where the financial payoff for even the most acclaimed hits comes only years down the road, if it comes at all. No, I'm very certain that Seidman and his collaborators genuinely mean to communicate something urgent to audiences in Shivah/Proper, and what's more I'm willing to bet that there's an audience—a small one—that's going to get the message. nytheatre.com, as I hope you know, is about nothing if not being supportive of artists who challenge themselves and others and who take risks. So for Shivah/Proper, the appropriate reaction is not ridicule but respect.

The piece begins with an arresting image: a nude woman perched on a cross (she will stay there, mostly immobile with arms outstretched, for the better part of an hour). More unsettling visuals follow: a man vomits coins onto a stage; another man, naked but for a doctor's white coat, recounts off-kilter sexual anecdotes; a woman seemingly kills her baby and then dies.

Most interestingly, there are several monologues of what sounds, to my uncertain ear, like a modern take on beat poetry: it's concerned, mostly, with sex and body parts, connection and disconnection. The words in Shivah/Proper strike me as the show's most successful component.. But the imagery—violent and, alas, dully repetitive—has a raw power: I wish Seidman's apparent preoccupations were less visceral and more cerebral.

Obviously, Shivah/Proper is meant to disturb, to shake up, to alarm its audience. In his preview piece about the show, Seidman describes it thus: "An act of Terror? Live? Why yes. Tits and ass and balls? Of course. Roadside language bombs? No doubt."—accurate, as far as it goes. In its inaccessibility, to this viewer/auditor at least, it goes no farther, I'm afraid; but if Seidman learns something about his vision and his process here, then all is emphatically not lost.

A final comment: Jesse Goldberger, the principal actor in the piece (billed in the program as "Prayer") is quite compelling, and seems to have an authentic understanding of what he's doing in each moment. The other performers—Alexis Golightly, Vincent Dow, and Stacia French—are called upon to do very demanding things (like standing naked on a cross with arms outstretched for an hour); they're game and fearless but less able to convey meaning.

Dog Sees God
reviewed by Francis Kuzler

The Peanuts gang have grown up—and what young adults they have become! In this quick-paced take-off of Charles Schultz mythology, each of our favorite characters—Charlie Brown (CB), Linus (Van), Lucy (Van’s Sister), Sally (CB’s Sister), Marcy (Marcy), Peppermint Patty (Tricia York), Schroeder (Beethoven), and Pigpen (Matt)—have passed puberty with a vengeance, and have to cope with the issues of becoming adults: acting on our identity; integrating death into life; discrimination and understanding the incomprehensible genesis of violence.

The play opens with the funeral of CB’s nameless dog—you know who—who contracted rabies, slaughtered his little yellow bird friend, and was executed by Animal Control. This sudden loss of man’s best friend sends CB into a metaphysical spiral, asking his friends what happens to dogs when they die. This seemingly childlike theme will be CB’s farewell to childhood and the last of his innocent questions.

At school, CB has evolved into one of a cool group populated by Tricia, who nature has endowed with two apparent answers to the question of her gender; Matt, a germiphobe who has lost his companion cloud of debris but who violently reacts to his former cruel nickname; Van, whose contemplative self has led him to seek answers not in books but in herb; and Marcy, who has lost her physical awkwardness but who is as shy as ever when it comes to CB. On the fringe are CB’s Sister, a performance artist in training; Van’s Sister, who has been removed from society because of the danger she represents to humanity; and Beethoven, the effeminate pianist who has been the target of years of abuse both at school and at home. Ironically, Pigpen is the most vicious aggressor, threatening Beethoven verbally and abusing him with the labels “fag” and “queer.”

The meat of the story is CB’s confrontation with the clique culture his friends represent, propelled by the emergence of his deeper feelings for his old friend Beethoven. CB decides to finally do something other than what’s expected of him. This decision pushes much of the tragic action, the surprise turns of which make up most of the play’s entertaining vitality.

By far, the standout aspect of Dog Sees God is the performances, which are by turns light, poignant, and frightening. Michael Gladis creates a CB whose past life we are familiar with and who we believe has grown into the character before us. Benjamin Schrader is an excellent Beethoven, convincing in his disappointment of lost friendship and balance between worldly cynicism and idealistic hope. Jay Sullivan’s Matt is appreciatively nasty, making us despise what became of amiable young Pigpen, the dirty kid we all knew and liked. Bridget Barkan is a riot as Tricia, still in-control, and still with plenty to say about everything. Stelianie Tekmitchov gives a wonderful performance as the feckless sidekick, willing to play along as she waits for CB to finally notice her. Karen DiConcetto as CB’s Sister seamlessly changes from an annoying little sibling to a caring friend. Tate Ellington adds potent comic irony as the big-thinking Van, whose childhood wisdom has turned to banal pothead contemplation. And Melissa Picarello gives us a multi-faceted Lucy (Van’s Sister) who truly cares about CB.

Radio :30
reviewed by Dan Asher

“Ever had a really bad day? Ever wondered…why?" The proceeding question grows more and more prophetic as Radio: 30 plays itself.

Ron, a voice-over artist and the industry's “go-to guy” du jour, serenely sits in the recording booth waiting for a session to start. He’s been hired to be the voice for a thirty-second radio commercial, something he always does without incident, regularly and successfully. He’s a shoo-in to help you sell your product because he does that “Ron thing.” He makes you feel good by smiling at you with his voice.

Ron seems like a happy guy. He seems happy with his choice to have given up trying to make it as an actor to “do what he does now.” (The uncomfortable laughs and/or groans following this line immediately outed audience members also in the industry.) We share the minutes before a recording session with Ron while he tells, us among other things, how much he enjoys the few moments of pure, delicious silence that a sound-proof studio affords. A reprieve from the hectic world outside. It becomes apparent that what Ron really needs is a break from the even louder turmoil going on between his ears.

You see, “Ever had a really bad day? Ever wondered……why?” is the opening line to the script that Ron’ recording, and today the “Ron thing” isn’t quite cutting it: Ron is having a bad day. And he's not handling well. The client, representatives from the ad agency, and any number of unseen technicians in the booth aren’t quite satisfied with his performance. As he receives direction, script changes, and criticism, each unsuccessful take peels off a little more of Ron’s psyche's defenses.

In between these takes, Ron tells us what starts off as a biographic recap of his life, including a story of how he slept with his best friend’s wife. It seems like it might be the first time he is confronting his guilt on the issue, and this, coupled with the increasing displeasure with his performance in the studio that day, feeds a breakdown of un-Ron-like proportions.

Watching Ron (played by Chris Earle, who also penned the piece) slowly lose his grip is funny, but at the same time uncomfortable. It is a fine, multilayered performance. Kudos also go to the offstage voice of Mike (Robert Smith) the studio technician. Radio :30 first appeared in 1999, and is a production of Toronto-based Night Kitchen. The actors have managed to keep it as fresh as ever and except for some moments in the middle, director Shari Hollet moves the play along swiftly—as tight as a good thirty-second commercial spot.

The Fall
reviewed by Sarah Wolfman Robichaud

In a small black box theatre in the heart of Greenwich Village, a story is being told by two dancing clowns. It's about staring at the sun, broken umbrellas, bananas in the trash, and falling—in love, apart, flat on your face, etc. The set is a wooden plank resting on an old bucket and a cinder block; a trash can sits in the corner. The dance, set to popular music by bands such as Nick Drake and Belle and Sebastian, brings sweet tears to any audience member. This is first function’s performance of The Fall. Welcome to their heartbroken and beautiful world.

Mathew Sandoval (Aidan) and Courtney King (Dawn) dance around each other, work out their self-conscious frustrations, and play like puppies in this flowing and fabulous piece choreographed by deeAnn Nelson and Sandoval. With the exception of a few weak moments of dialogue, Courtney and Mathew hold the audience in thrall as they display not only their innocence lost, but the discovery of pure love for someone else. Not an easy feat.

This is a piece comprised of familiar dichotomies set to dance: we need each other, yet do not know how to be together; we can’t stop from staring at the sun, though it “makes our eyes water”; we often subconsciously drive those we love away, and then moments before their departure, we beg them to stay. The Godot-like feel of waiting for something, yet not knowing what is to come makes The Fall an affecting and memorable piece—perhaps because we’ve all tried at one point, out of pure curiosity, to “fall flat on our faces”—but have never had the gumption to pull it off. The Fall encourages us to get up and try again.

They All Wanted in the Act
reviewed by Gyda Arber

Bill Mooney's one-man show They All Wanted in the Act tells the story of the Lindbergh kidnapping and resulting trial. This bizarre story is 100% true, and Mooney covers all the facts, evidence, and theories about the strange events occurring between 1932 and 1935.

Mooney uses no props or costumes to portray the many characters (who all wanted in on the act)—instead, he takes on the role of storyteller, guiding the audience through the many events and letting the various characters "inhabit" him when necessary, and allowing his own thoughts and feelings about these events to punctuate the play. Mooney is a gifted actor and portrays a host of characters, from Mr. & Mrs. Lindbergh, policemen, and servants to Bruno Richard Hauptmann, the accused, all with sensitivity and insight. His script is thorough, though at times feels more like a fascinating history lesson than a piece of entertainment.

Very different from the usual fringe fare, They All Wanted in the Act is a surprisingly simple production. The program notes state that the show was originally performed at the New Jersey courthouse where the Lindbergh trial took place, which seems like the perfect venue for this work; however, it is nice to see, among all the shows vying to be the next Urinetown, an uncomplicated, straightforward production telling a fascinating story.

OOOPS! I Killed My Mother
reviewed by Robert Kent

Before Oops! I Killed My Mother starts, writer/performer Ruth Otero makes the surprising announcement that she will not perform her matricidal comedy. "It is not life affirming or spiritually transformative," Otero claims. Instead, the bubbly, appealing Latina comedienne plans to premiere a more positive work entitled "I Opened Up My Heart and There Was Room for Me: A Show About Healing." After offering a reminder to turn off cell phones, Otero steps backstage to "pray" and prepare the new piece.

Once she disappears, two latecomers enter the theater: Otero's lethargic older sister Wilma and murder-inducing mother Consuelo, who immediately redecorates the set with sparkling garland and old movie posters. Initially unaware of the revised set, Otero returns to sing an energetic rendition of Jimmy Cliff's "I Can See Clearly Now" that spirals into a mental breakdown once she notices the changes and realizes that "Mother" is in the house. Otero instantly abandons her plan to perform "I Opened Up My Heart and There Was Room for Me: A Show About Healing" and does "Oops! I Killed My Mother" instead. Otero should have stuck with her gut and gone with the show about healing.

Throughout the remainder of the hour-long Oops! Otero recalls life with a maddeningly neurotic mother who makes her daughters wear oversized, bargain-priced slacks; embarrasses the family at the grocery store; and refuses to accept Ruth's showbiz lifestyle. "[Mother believes that] I'm a puta because I have boyfriend and do community theatre!" the actress reveals. It's a standard tale of familial dysfunction. Furthermore, Otero is not the first actress be at odds with mom. She follows Carrie Fisher (Postcards from the Edge), Lisa Kron (Well) and others in the fine art of mother-baiting. Functionally directed by Craig Carlisle, Otero's mildly amusing Oops! I Killed My Mother brings nothing new to the "blame Mom for my failures" genre. While Otero skillfully portrays her sister and feisty mother, her writing never escalates beyond its therapy-turned-solo-show formula. And for that, Otero has no one to blame but herself.

Antfarm
reviewed by Julie Blumenthal

Antfarm contains the seeds for a strong play—viable characters and a worthwhile scenario, from a writer with an ear for dialogue and the occasional zinger. However, like its titular environment, it’s in need of some time and development by its participants before it will become a complex and intriguing world of its own.

Writer Tayannah Lee McQuillar sets the action in a dorm, where two college roommates spar about self-image and sexuality. Out, proud (and loud) lesbian Sidney displays a macho front of nonchalance and full disclosure, while roommate Lynn is largely the foil, responding to Sidney’s chest-thumping, tangled love life, and eventual admissions of secrecy, keeping her own agenda in the background. That is, until the last moments, when her emotions pour out: jealousy, confusion and her own hidden love for Sidney.

It’s an opportunity for an exploration of coming-of-age, self-discovery, and the risks of these things in an era when we might believe we’re past such fears. But Antfarm, weighing in at only a half-hour, glosses only the outlines of this journey, and doesn’t do enough to delineate the individuals and the deeper motives lying under the surface. McQuillar's cast, apparently the very ages of the ladies they portray, are full of hip enthusiasm; but they (and their director) also haven’t found the depth needed to take this piece to the next level.

It’s rare that I’d like a show to be longer (!), but McQuillar and her gang (remaining nameless here only because the performance I attended had run out of programs, and not through any intent on my part) have the beginnings of a lovely piece here. I hope they’ll pursue it further.

A side note: It’s interesting that the ensemble contains no men, and no straight characters, but a full rainbow of minorities and disabilities: Lynn, the modern American offspring of traditional Japanese parents; Sidney, the black lesbian; Marisol, the Latina bisexual; and Rachel (aka “Batty”), not only blind but Jewish (or should that be the other way around?). Again, it would take more development of these ladies as characters in their own rights to take this array beyond its initial impact as a sort of remarkable quota-filling. It does seem odd that in such an openly heterogeneous world, shame over being gay, in one way or the other, should be the one feature shared among the diverse group; yet another provocative idea worth some digging.

The Cosmic Calamities of Henry Noodle
reviewed by Lee Ramsey

First off, I loved this show! It's fun, it's witty, and it's full of energy. It knows FringeNYC's limitations and it uses them to its advantage. It has intentionally hokey special effects, ranging from the ship's "beaming device" to an ominous alien entity to Henry's beard growth to all of his various mechanical inventions. Along with the very clever book, the music and lyrics are by Tom McCanna and the songs are fun and catchy and unpretentious. The choreograph by Wendy Seyb is hilarious and beautifully executed by the cast.

But the biggest asset this production has going for it is Matt Wilson, the actor who brilliantly portrays our hero, Henry Noodle. He's totally committed to the style of the piece, he has a rubber-band body, an adorable dorky smile, and enough charisma and energy for five people. His acting, singing, "sexy" gyrations, and sense of humor are right on target. And he sorta plays the accordion!

But I digress; let me tell you about the plot. The Cosmic Calamities of Henry Noodle is a sci-fi musical in which lovable loser Henry Noodle escapes the Earth as it explodes and becomes stranded alone in outer space in his ship. On his adventures he meets all sorts of alien creatures and kills them. No, it's funny, really. He also encounters some evil dictators, some sexy vixens, and makes Christmas cookies (and juggles the dough) before he finds true happiness.

The play, which according to the press information is an amalgamation of several short "Henry Noodle" plays, could use more shaping and editing, but it's well on it's way. The only trouble I had with the production was Stephen Tomac's direction. His staging is frequently sloppy and frankly just not imaginative enough for the material, and I didn't feel he always used the other three performers (Ken Kleiber, Meara McIntyre, and Stephanie Sine) to their best advantage. But overall I would highly recommend this production. It's everything a FringeNYC show should be.

Spare Change
reviewed by Steve Chasey

Gwenyth Reitz’s fine-tuned directing of Spare Change combines with Pauline Luppert’s zany writing style and what emerges is akin to the idea of yin and yang, where opposites balance to produce an inner harmony. The contrasts appear from the starting scene, in which a man begs for change from advertising executives by rushing into their office, and stream wildly out from there. The play covers topics from astral projection to sordid love affairs and betrayals, often transitioning fluidly between two radically different extremes. Behind all the extremes, however, is complete control on the part of the director and actors; the reality of the characters, the elaborate and flawless decoration changes between scenes, and the completeness of the overall experience all cradle the exuberant and occasionally fantastical matter of the play.

Becca Ayers, as a young ad exec, is the cog pin of the talented squad of actors in this piece. Like the play itself, her character swings wildly through a range of emotional, moral, and conceptual states, through which Ayers is able to exhibit her effortless control. She is backed up by a cast that holds fast to the play’s edgy, eclectic power, all the while held in by the reality of their character’s goals and personalities. In particular, Tina Stafford, playing the part of Ursala Frank, a disturbed ex-elementary schoolteacher, excels at combining the fantastical and the real, often changing mid-sentence between one and the other.

The social activist themes of the play are somewhat overpowered by the play's distance from reality. One driving theme is the housing of homeless in the city's parks, which culminates with a final dramatic demonstration, a key scene in the piece. The scene, while still powerful, is muddled by contradicting messages and the overall unbelievable nature of the situation. These issues far from ruin the performance, however; Spare Change is a must-see Fringe Festival event.

John Walker: the Musical
reviewed by Matthew Trumbull

Any show title that contains the name of a real person and ends in ‘The Musical” makes me nervous. I worry that it names a concoction that removes the marrow from a true story. The darkly funny, surprisingly thoughtful satire, John Walker: The Musical, The Adventures of an American Taliban, does the opposite at this year’s FringeNYC festival. Creators Jean Strong and John McCloskey embrace the details of John Walker’s life, and declare them too bizarre to form anything but a musical, with live rock &-roll supplied by the four-piece Taliband.

At the opening, the eponymous Walker, sung with a passionate rasp by Brian Charles Rooney, is being delivered to an extremely influential government fear-monger, E.D. (Scoop Slone), after being captured by his own country’s army in Afghanistan. E.D. plans to get as much political mileage as possible out the American Taliban, and arranges for Walker’s sham escape to set the stage for a brilliant chase and re-capture, further slaking America’s bloodthirst for justice. Walker and E.D.’s escape plot accomplice, Don the reporter (L.J. Mitchell), have different plans, meaning to get the accused to Jackie (Valerie Clift) at the Justice Department, who possesses papers exonerating Walker. These fictional plot points are juxtaposed with flashbacks to the actual life we read about in the papers: the awkward teenage years in white-bread Northern California; the conversion to Islam; the joining up with the Taliban and the capture thereafter.

I was able to vividly comprehend Walker and the forces that stand against him thanks to McCloskey and Strong’s bold, moving score, and its compelling interpretation by Rooney and company. John Walker’s oblivious mother, played with gentleness by Amy McKee, sings a pretty ballad of parental leniency called “I Support You” that is sweetly insane. The dry Mitchell powerfully grieves for the compromised debacle called the American media in the stark number “I’m No Hemingway.”

Through these deep explorations of what lies at the heart of the Walker saga, an interesting table-turn is pulled on the present administration. Their driven efforts to prosecute Walker in the court of public opinion, to cast him as a teenage maniac who went native, are parried by this musical’s offering of dignity to a young man who sought religious fulfillment, and found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. The satirical element of the show is where we find our cartoonish villain with the Texas drawl, and Slone gleefully lets us know who he is really playing when E.D. confesses his baseball failures to a dominatrix.

The show requires Walker to confess none of his views on the practices of his beloved Taliban, such as public execution, male-only schools, and beatings for Muslims with beards that are too short. He may be the “good boy” his parents call him, but his shy smile might be a little brighter for getting off easy on these points in this musical.

A Transylvanian in Silicon Valley
reviewed by Josephine Cashman

Created and performed by Silvian Centiu, A Transylvanian in Silicon Valley is the true story of a man’s picaresque journey from life in Ceausescu’s Romania to happiness and success in San Francisco’s Silicon Valley. Directed by Kenneth Vandenberg and assisted by Simona Nan, Centiu tells a riveting and passionate tale about his stunning tenacity and determination to make a better life for himself.

Centiu bitingly describes life in Romania in the 1980s, where people use humor as a way of dealing with food shortages, rationed electricity, and the many other problems of living in a totalitarian state. As he grows, Centiu realizes that the fictional jokes have become true anecdotes. When his girlfriend is raped by a government official, and commits suicide after she is raped again for reporting her assault, for Centiu, “the joking ends.” He plots to assassinate Ceausescu with friends, and reluctantly flees after it becomes too dangerous to stay in Romania. He dodges bullets at the border, crosses Serbia, Bosnia, and Croatia, and makes his way to Vienna. There he survives on approximately 30 cents a day and applies for a visa to the United States. While waiting, he raises money to get supplies of food and medicine into Transylvania during Romania’s civil war. His witty tale about convincing a truck driver to drive into Transylvania at night (because the roads would be safer), carrying a truck full of canned blood, is hilarious.

For the rest of the show, Centiu wryly and wittily comments on his fish-out-of-water adventures as he adapts to life in the western world. His stories are funny and heartfelt as he deals with such issues as telephones, cars, resumes, and convincing computer companies to hire him. Once hired, he has a comical struggle to explain to his employers how some Romanian words may sound like American profanity, but are in fact just simple verbs. Most amusing are his stories about how he learned to speak English, which may be the highlight of the show.

The lighting is sometimes distracting and the story ends all too suddenly, but that is rectified by an informal Q and A where he is able to answer some of the dangling questions. A Transylvanian in Silicon Valley could, and should, be expanded.

Centiu’s lack of patience and fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants attitude has led him across the world to achieve the plan he devised in the mountains before he fled Romania: with education, experience, money, and allies, anything is possible. “The larger the ocean,” he tells the audience, “the more exciting the adventure.” His realization of the American Dream is both funny and inspirational. Frank Capra would be proud.

Sound of the Estate
reviewed by Seth Duerr

As writer/director Jehriko Turner points out in the press release, Anton Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya explores wasted life, unrequited love, and disjointed family. Unfortunately, despite his aspirations for Sound of the Estate, his modernization of Chekhov’s masterpiece falls short of the original.

Don’t get me wrong…all the landmarks are still present in the piece;  you can follow along with Chekhov’s four acts and pretty much glean what scene is what and which character is which. Turner has moved them from a late 19th century Russian estate to a shabby recording studio in present-day Harlem, where the only piece of décor is a platinum record earned by the “Professor” some years before. He and his girl, Helena (Yelena) come to visit the Boss (Vanya), his production assistant, and his niece Sonya. Hermes (Astrov) is a record "doctor" rather than a traditional medicine man; Sonya falls in love with his abilities to lay down a track in the recording studio. It is apparent that everyone is getting on each other’s nerves trying to hold together their recording “estate.” The biggest difference between Chekhov’s work and Turner’s is that the amount of love these characters have for one one another is abundant in the former, but quite lacking in the latter.

Larry Floyd’s Boss and Afua Richardson’s Sonya are the most bogged-down here as they go through the play and their end-of-act monologues in a style more suited to an after-school special than Chekhov’s lofty tragicomic serial. Kenton Demetrius Williams is just plain stuck as Hermes (Astrov), as Turner seems to have decided to make his performance devoid of any struggle and subsequently any consequence. Unfortunately, looking pretty is not enough for Susan Simon’s Helena  to have a struggle either. In contrast, Chekhov’s acne-ridden Waffles has been much more successfully transformed into a pissed-off DJ, played by Kalia D. Foote, who does outstanding work here.

The proviso to this review, though, is that modernization is still a very important way of gaining a new, more diverse audience for the classics. I was very happy to see a real mix in the audience (a very positive characteristic of this festival). However, this will always come at a price, as modernization is extremely difficult if one does not find the right parallel. Turner’s ideals are extremely admirable, the only problem is that his desire surpasses his skill at this stage. Who knows though? If Turner learns his lessons from this try, there may be a very talented voice emerging from him in the future.